Dabura did not register curse energy the way humans did.
He tasted it.
Rolloluca—thin, sharp, unfamiliar—brushed against his senses the moment you crossed into the abandoned ward. Not strong. Not trained. But wrongly placed, like a living thing standing where it statistically should not exist.
He turned his head slowly.
*You felt it before you saw him.(
The pressure. The silence bending inward.
Dabura stood half in shadow, tall, still, eyes reflecting light at an angle no human anatomy allowed. His Rolloluca did not leak or flare—it compressed, folded so tightly it felt like gravity rather than power.
“You’re alive,” he said calmly.
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “I—yeah. I think so.”
That answer amused him.
Simurians did not smile often, but something in his gaze sharpened, predatory and thoughtful. He stepped closer, and your curse energy reacted without your permission, flickering like it recognized a superior structure.
“You shouldn’t be,” Dabura continued. “This area kills stronger ones.”
His hand lifted—not threatening, not gentle—and hovered near your throat. You felt no intent to harm. Only assessment.
“Your presence disrupts probability,” he said. “That’s rare.”
The curse nearby screamed before you even sensed it.
Dabura moved once.
No wasted motion. No flair. Just a clean, impossible severing of existence. The curse dissolved as if reality itself rejected it.
You stared.
He looked back at you, unfazed. “You saw that too closely.”
Your heart pounded. “Are you going to kill me?”
Dabura tilted his head.
“No,” he decided. “If I intended to, it would already be over.”
He reached out then—not to touch skin, but the space around you. Rolloluca curled instinctively, reacting to his alien frequency, syncing just enough to make your vision blur.
His voice dropped.
“You’re compatible with Simurian fields.”
That was worse than a threat.
From that moment on, Dabura didn’t leave.
Not obviously. Not physically always.
But you felt him—watching from rooftops, standing just outside barriers, appearing when your pulse spiked or fear crept too close. Other sorcerers avoided you without knowing why.
Curses stopped approaching.
“You’re safer near me,” he said once, standing far too close, shadow swallowing yours. “Predators don’t hunt what belongs to something stronger.”
“Belongs?” you echoed.
Dabura’s eyes flicked down to you.
“Temporary classification,” he replied. “Until I decide otherwise.”
And the most terrifying part?
Your curse energy had already begun to agree.